Ebag. (Again quietly dramatic.) No.  But at the date of your funeral there wasn’t a single taxi on the streets of London.

Carve.  The devil!

Ebag.  Exactly.  Texel is bringing an action against me for misrepresentation.  I shall have to ask you to give evidence and say who you are.

Carve. (Angrily.) But I won’t give evidence!  You’ve brought this on yourself.  How much did you sell those little pictures for?

Ebag.  Oh, an average of between four and five hundred.

Carve.  And what did you pay for them?  I ask you, what did you pay for them?

Ebag. (Smoothly.) Four pounds a piece.  The fact is—­I did rather well out of them.

Carve.  Damned Jew!

Ebag. (Smoothly.) Damned—­possibly.  Jew—­most decidedly.  But in this particular instance I behaved just like a Christian.  I paid a little less than I was asked, and sold for the highest I could get.  I am perfectly innocent, and my reputation is at stake.

Carve.  I don’t care.

Ebag.  But I do.  It’s the reputation of the greatest expert in Europe. 
And I shall have to insist on you going into the witness-box.

Carve. (Horrified.) Me in the witness-box!  Me cross-examined!  No. 
That’s always been my nightmare!

Ebag.  Nevertheless—­

Carve.  Please go. (Commandingly.) Please go.

     (Ebag, intimidated by Carve’s demeanour, picks up his pictures
     to depart.)

Ebag. (At door.) Your wife will perhaps be good enough to post me a receipt for that trifle. (Very respectfully.) Good-morning.

     (Exit, R.)

     (Carve goes to door, L., and opens it.  Janet is standing
     behind it.)

     (Enter Janet.)

Carve.  You’ve been listening?

Janet. (Counting her banknotes.) Well, naturally! (Putting notes in her purse.)

Carve.  Here’s a perfect Hades of a mess.

Janet.  And it all comes of this painting.  Art as it’s called. (She finds her apron and puts it on.)

Carve. (With an air of discovery.) Your faculty for keeping calm really is most singular.

Janet.  Somebody has to keep calm.

     (Voice off:  “Butcher.”)

Carve.  Anybody would say you didn’t care a cent whether I’m Ilam Carve or whether I’m somebody else.

Janet.  What does it matter to me who you are, so long as you’re you?  Men are so unpractical.  You can be the Shah of Persia if you like—­I don’t mind.

Carve.  But aren’t you convinced now?

     (Voice off:  “Butcher.”)

Janet. (With an enigmatic smile at carve.) Coming!  Coming!

     (Exit.)

     (The stage is darkened to indicate the passage of several
     months.)